


Crash This Train

by RavenAurelieChoiseau



Category: Teen Wolf (TV), steter - Fandom
Genre: Adult Themes, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Anal Sex, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Boys Kissing, Discovery, Explicit Language, Fear of Discovery, Fluff and Angst, Forbidden Love, Friendship, Homelessness, Implied/Referenced Underage Prostitution, Kissing, Leaving Home, M/M, Music, New York City, Non-Canon Relationship, Older Man/Younger Man, Oral Sex, Piano, Romanticism, Slow Burn, Smut, Stiles chooses to be an escort, Stiles is 21, Stiles is an altruist, Street Rats, Tragic Elements, Unexpected Meetings, don't blame me for being so romantic, it's tough, stiles is caring, street life
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-03
Updated: 2019-02-04
Packaged: 2019-10-21 15:27:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,057
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17645417
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RavenAurelieChoiseau/pseuds/RavenAurelieChoiseau
Summary: Stiles does what he needs to in order to get by in New York City.Peter comes upon him by chance and both their lives just may change forever.





	1. Chelsea Piers

**Author's Note:**

> This fic began as one idea and ended up being 10 pages of another. I hope you can come with me on this emotional ride, for a cause close to my heart. I suck at summaries but please enjoy.  
> Joshua James' "Crash This Train" is title song and beginning lyrics. You may know it from Sons of Anarchy.

"I hope you find what you're looking for  
When it all comes running down  
I hope you find it painted black on your window  
Or the lips of your lover's frown  
Because if it dies in the cold, when the clouds start to roll  
Is it then that your soul starts to bleed?"  
  
-  
  
Stiles squares his shoulders, digging his clenched hands deeper into his jacket pockets. He draws a breath, filling his lungs with polluted air then letting it out slowly in a low hiss.  
The drag is cold against his teeth.

A red light pulses behind his lids **.**  
If only Stiles still had his pills.  
A shiver shakes him and he pulls his collar tighter.

Stiles forces his eyes open, staring forward at the wall opposite. He’s trying to concentrate on staying awake. Sleeping 3 hours a night is taking its toll.  
A car invades the carriageway, its headlights casting a soft glow. It illuminates parts of an impressively painted mural, a piece still visible under four layers of tags. There’s a bit of it that reminds Stiles of something he’d seen back home. A lifetime ago.  
  
He releases an old man’s tired sigh.

Unrelieved shades of gray suddenly brighten as a dark sedan pulls up to the curb on the south side of the underpass. A small figure exits the car, slamming the door as he yells “FUCK YOU!”  
It echoes all around but Stiles doesn’t hear it. His Bach drowns out all the noise.

The young man checks for traffic and crosses over, running the diagonal on short legs. Stiles pulls out the earbuds, the notes of the prelude fading into the night as they fall to his chest.  
Stiles doesn’t need the audio. He knows every bar by heart.

The boy looks up from under his green hood, sticking his tiny fist out in salute. Two round cornflower eyes blink.  
“Jesus Ben!” Stiles exclaims as he fist-bumps him back. “What the hell happened?”

Ben glances upwards and sniffs the air. The beginnings of what will be a huge black eye spread beneath his lower lid.  
“Asshole punched me. Said he wanted a discount because I made him come too fast. I told him it ain’t my fault he’s a horny fuck and I’m amazing in bed.  He asked me to suck him off, and I did. What the fuck, ya know? So then he starts yankin’ at my pants, says he’s gonna fuck me. I told him he gets near me I’m gonna start screamin’ rape. I top. Ain’t nobody gonna fuck my ass.”

Lights appear again, a crappy family car driving past. Their attention is momentarily focused on its occupant. Stiles smiles and takes a step forward. Ben hangs back, riding a hunch that this one won’t want him.

It doesn’t stop. The green Volvo speeds up and turns the corner once it reaches the end of the street.  
Ben waves it away. “Ahh… fuggedaboutit. He probably likes blondes. Or Asians. Let him try his luck over on 21st.”  
Ben seems to be on edge. His pupils are blown.  
Stiles wonders if he’s using again.

Nodding, Stiles blinks back to Ben. “So, what happened after that?” The words take shape in the frosty air.

Ben clucks his tongue, his long black lashes fluttering. He can’t stand still.  
“He almost left me there, but I told him I was gonna press assault charges and his wife wouldn’t be too happy to know he’s a fag rapin’ a kid. You know I got that cop friend. He woulda covered for me. So he brought me back here. Lemme tell ya that was one silent car ride.”  
  
-  
  
What he really says is “cah ride” and it makes Stiles grin every time. He can’t get over the accent.  
Ben’s been Stiles’ lookout for 18 months. He’s a great kid deep down, just troubled.  
Like a lot of guys Stiles has run into, Ben’s story is almost a cliche.  
A runaway from Long Island whose Italian-American family didn’t take too kindly to having a gay son, Beniamino Placido got kicked out at 15.  
Like many others in his situation, Ben was forced onto the streets. He had dreams of becoming the next MAX.  
Hard to do when New York City swallows you up and spits you back out.  
  
He tried. It wasn’t easy convincing people to take a chance on him, and Ben didn’t have much savings when he took off. For a while it seemed promising. But once he lost his job as a dishwasher in an Italian restaurant in Little Italy (the reasons are still unclear, but Stiles imagines it had to do with money disappearing from the register), little Ben got evicted. He was sharing a shitty studio apartment with two barely legal kids running a racket of stolen meds. (Both runaways from Poughkeepsie). To this day Stiles isn’t sure they didn’t make Ben take part (and got him hooked).  
So the rest is history. From dealing stolen meds to addiction, Ben moved on to prostitution.  
  
Ben’s been hustling for more than a year now. He pays some old guy 400 a month to sleep on a couch in his unheated basement in Queens. Of course the nasty asshole also wants sexual favors in exchange. Twice a week Ben does stuff with him on a webcam and gets a small percentage of the yield. It’s degrading, thinking he gets naked on the internet so some geezers with a twink kink can get off… but he’s got to eat, right?  
  
When Stiles asked him about it a while back, he claimed it was better than sleeping in parking garages or riding the train all night.    
“At least when I’m there I can actually _sleep_. I don’t need the downers as much, ya know? I don’t get those voices in my head.”  
The “voices” sometimes make Ben say and do odd things. Stiles’ suspicion is that he might be an undiagnosed schizophrenic. To quiet his mind, Ben took downers and began drinking. When it got bad Stiles wouldn't see him for days.  
But then he'd be penniless again and spend entire nights fucking anything that breathed for even 10 dollars a hit.  
It’s heartbreaking.  
“I’ve got a roof over my head. Don’t have to watch my back or wonder if I’m gonna get stabbed or worse before mornin’. You know how many times my shit got stole when I was sleepin’ in parks?! How many chicken hawks used me in public bathrooms when I first started hustlin’ and then wouldn’t pay me cuz I’m tiny?! Fuck that, man. I’ll suck a little old man cock if I need to in order to survive, ya know?”  
  
Stiles knows. It’s rough. He truly wishes he could do more. For Ben. For himself. But survival sex is one of the few ways homeless gay youth can get by. Many of these kids don’t think they’re going to make it to 21.  
“Fuck it. If I get sick I die. Bettah than livin’ this fucking life. How long you think I can keep doin’ this, Stiles? You got a future… what do I got? Nuttin’.”  
  
Not exactly in the same conditions as Ben, Stiles feels lucky. He only has to do this for extra income. This is the reason he can be more discerning. If he doesn’t like the john he refuses. If he’s too tired, he hustles a couple hours and then goes home.  
Stiles also has the luxury of being careful. He begs Ben to use protection. Buys him condoms.  
Deep down he knows the boy usually doesn’t. Won't. Ben makes more money bare backing. He’d rather run the risk.  
  
-  
  
“Shit, I could really use a smoke,” Ben’s breath clouds in front of him.  
The throughway above makes the wall behind him vibrate. A rat scurries into a crack in the cement.  
Jesus Ben _really_ wants a fucking cigarette.  
  
“Sorry, man. I’m outta smokes. And, for what it’s worth, that shit’ll kill you.”  
A twitch of age darkens Ben’s eyes. Something he should know nothing about but he’s been rough too long not to understand.  
“That ain’t what’s gonna kill me, Stiles.” The words just hang there like a bad omen. Stiles fakes a smile but knows it’s probably going to be true.  
_Jesus Fucking Christ.  
_  
“For what it's worth, B, I hate it when a john gets violent. At least I can stand up for myself. I’m sorry, Ben. You shouldn’t be picked on because you’re smaller. Have you thought about self-defense classes? I mean this is a shitty gig.”

Ben half-smiles with ruby bruised lips, the anger draining from his face. “It’s all good, man. It’ll fade. Makes me look tougha, ya know?”  
He puts his dukes up. “I can throw dese when I need to, ya know?”  
  
Except it doesn’t make Ben look tougher. Ben is 18 and resembles a middle-schooler. Petite in frame, wiry. Hairless, flawless skin. Every Daddy looking for a twink knows to come by this alley of the Chelsea Piers.  
Stiles worries for him, being out here alone. That’s why he looks out for him. They’ve made a pact to take a picture of every license plate the other leaves with. Stiles even got Ben a phone because he couldn’t afford one. He didn’t want him to be on the streets without any way of calling for help.  
It took some convincing for him to take it but at the end he agreed.  
“Just because it’s you Stilinski,” he had said.  
  
They huddle into each other, Stiles’ leg propped up against the concrete. Stiles can feel the icy temperature penetrate through his thin clothes. His knees have gone numb.  
Ben blows into his hands, wringing them. “Jesus fuck it’s cold out here. Fuck me, why didn’t I run away to California?”  
Stiles winces. “Trust me, California is no paradise.”  
  
Ben opens his mouth to answer but there’s another vehicle approaching. It’s bigger. Not a cheap sedan.  
A black Lexus SUV edges the curb. This must be one of the richies from the Upper West Side.  
Stiles knows the type better than anyone.  
  
A window rolls down like a slow yawn.  
They both crouch a little lower to peer inside.  
  
The sound of classical music resonates from within and Stiles’ ears perk up.  
A handsome middle-aged man wearing a blue sweatshirt and a baseball cap studies them both. The washed-out denim color of his hoodie matches his solemn eyes perfectly.  
“Well shit,” Ben whispers.  
The driver says nothing. Both his hands remain clawed on the steering wheel.  
  
Ben likes him. Stiles has grown to know his type, with his Daddy issues and all.  
He lets Ben take this one.  
“Hey Mista, are you lookin’ for a good time? Need a date?”

The man makes as if to answer, then leans into the passenger side.  
“Um. No thank you, young man. You, the one with the honey eyes. Can _you_ come closer?”  
There’s an edge of hesitation to his tone.  
  
Ben is not without disappointment as he presses back into the slab. This guy seemed nice, clean. Polite. You can’t tell until you get them naked, but… it was promising. He’s glad at least Stiles will get a good date.  
Stiles tugs his beanie down nervously as he walks the four steps to the car window. His chocolate brown locks peek out from under his woolen hat.  
“Hey, mister. Looking for a date?”  
There’s a moment of uncertainty, a shadow passing over the man’s face. Almost of recognition.  
To be honest, the driver also looks familiar to Stiles. But it can’t be. He barely knows anyone in New York City.  
  
The john’s gaze darts ahead and back, like he’s expecting the police to just show up any minute.  
When he meets Stiles’ again, his expression is softer. The skin around his sapphire eyes crinkles when he smiles. “Um… yes. Yeah, I guess I am. How much? How does this work? I… um… I’ve never done this before.”  
That’s what they all say, Stiles thinks. But as he takes a better look, he registers he’s never seen him in this alley. Maybe he’s new to the city. The man doesn’t have a NY accent. If anything there’s a California lilt to it.  
  
“100 for an hour. Straight up blow jobs. It’s a hundred fifty if you want to fuck. Money upfront.”  
Stiles has been known to fuck for 50 but a Lexus? He’ll be damned if he’s going to sell himself short.  
“I switch so whatever you want to do is fine. I just have one big rule. I don’t mess around without condoms. You want bareback you try 21st street. It’s a deal-breaker, okay? I know other guys are cheaper but you go ahead if you want to go home with HIV or the clap. I’m careful and clean.”  
  
The driver shakes his head. “No. Um… no. I mean, I’d never without… I don’t even know if intercourse is what I want. I may just… we might just… Can we see what happens?”  
He stabs his hand through his dark hair, heart rate kicking up a notch.  
  
Stiles puts a hand behind his back. He joins his fingertips with his thumb twice in quick succession. It’s their signal to take a picture. Ben pulls his phone from his pocket and pretends to check it.  
“Sure. Let’s go.”  
As Stiles settles into the front seat, the seatbelt clicking, Ben takes a photograph of the plate as they pull away.  
They’ve got to take care of each other. The streets are brutal.  
  
-  
  
The leather seats are soft and very comfortable. Stiles sinks right in like it’s a cloud.  
The air’s warm, the heat a welcome change in temperature from the wintry cold.  
  
“This is a nice car.” Stiles has never been good at small talk. Then again, most of his dates last about 10 minutes including travel time. There usually isn’t an occasion for triviality.  
“Thank you.” The john clears his throat. “So, where do we go? How do you usually do this?”  
The man’s voice trembles. Shit, maybe he hasn’t done this before.  
  
Stiles inhales. His aftershave, spicy but not overwhelming, complements whatever air freshener he’s got hanging off the vent. Stiles cocks his head.  
“It depends how much you want to spend. I can do you in the car. There’s a parking garage near here. Or we can go to a motel. There’s a pay-by-the-hour about 4 blocks south. It’s not the Ritz, but it’s more comfort and privacy if you don’t mind the thrill of bed bugs and questionable hygiene.”  
The driver darts his glance to Stiles and laughs nervously. “You’re funny.”  
  
Stiles smiles to himself. “Thanks. I’ve always been a smartass. Anyway, as I was saying, it’s up to you and what you want to do. I wouldn’t pay for a hotel room if you only want a blow job. I can take care of you in the garage.”  
The man turns his head, easing back into a brittle smile . “Let’s get the room and see what happens. I’m willing to take my chances if you are.”  
“Sure thing,” Stiles chuckles in agreement. “So, do you have a name? What should I call you?”  
  
He normally doesn’t ask johns this, he doesn’t care. But there’s something about this one. He exudes melancholy and a lot of… kindness.  
Stiles maps his body with side-long glances. He’s extremely fit. Well-dressed even in sports casual dress. Very attractive now that he has a better point of view. An angular chin and full mouth.  
“Peter. My name’s Peter. And yours?”  
“St…” he catches himself as he’s about to pronounce his real name. “Steve. My name’s Steve.”  
  
Peter’s brow wrinkles. “You don’t look like a Steve. But okay.”  
He focuses his attention on the traffic but is drawn back to Stiles’ profile now and again.    
“Have we met before? I don’t mean, for _this_ … you just look so familiar.”  
Stiles wriggles in his place. “No, I don’t think so. I don’t get out much.”  
This is true.  
  
The piece on the radio changes. Stiles’ hand unconsciously goes through the fingering, light taps on his thigh.  
“Mozart - Piano Concerto No.23, The Adagio. So pretty,” he breathes.  
Peter halts. “You know Mozart?”  
_Shit._ Stiles isn’t supposed to talk about himself. “Yes. Um… I come from a musical family. That was Rach you were listening to earlier. Prelude in C Sharp Minor.”  
_What are you doing, Stiles?!  
_  
Peter’s jaw drops. “Remarkable. Yes, it was.” He squints trying to get a better look at Stiles.  
“I swear I’ve seen you before,” he muses.  
Stiles purposely faces the street outside, avoiding the man’s stare. “I don’t think so, Peter.”  
  
-  
  
Room 4 is shitty. Spartan and smelling of stale cigarettes and cum. But for 50 bucks an hour what do they expect?  
Though the bed is made, there are some serious doubts between them as to the last time the sheets were changed.  
“I’ll just drape a towel over them,” Stiles suggests after having smelled it. “It reeks of bleach, that’s a good sign, right?”  
  
Peter sits on the edge of the bed, hands steepled before him. He returns a strained laugh. “Maybe I should have taken you to my house.” His strong shoulders are slumped.  
  
Stiles walks around to the foot of the bed. Peter’s hands find themselves in his own.  
“Hey Peter… Peter. Look at me.”  
The handsome man meets his gaze. “Peter… relax. We’re here to have fun, okay? Don’t think about this shameful display of interior design as a cock block.”  
Jesus, who are you, kid? Peter thinks. He can’t stifle his giggle.  “Okay. Okay.”  
  
Stiles kisses the tips of his perfectly manicured fingers. There are a few with callouses, his lips note.  
Placing Peter’s flattened palms on his chest, he inhales.  
“Just breathe. Feel my heartbeat.”  
There’s a rose tint to Stiles’ cheeks and Peter’s taken aback by the boy’s beauty, ethereal in this low light. Stiles has eyes like a stream of gold in the dark and a few moles on his cheeks that…  
  
“So, what do you want to do? I don’t mean to be a buzz kill but I sort of need to know, so I can get payment upfront. Not that I don’t trust you, but…”  
Peter gulps, nodding. “Yeah, oh my God. Of course.” Peter pulls his wallet from his jeans, weighing it in his hands as if it were his conscience. After fixating it, unseeing, he pulls out three bills.  
“Um, I honestly don’t know. But it doesn’t matter. Here.”  
Stiles finds 300 dollars pointing at him. His eyes saucer.  
  
“Um, Peter? I don’t know what you’re expecting me to do for 300 bucks. Unless you want me for 4 hours. I’m not into anything weird. Happy to suck you off or whatever but… “  
Peter shakes his head. “No… no. You don’t understand. You seem like a nice kid. And I’m good for it. Consider it me buying your time. Whatever we decide to do or not is up to you. I… I don’t want to force anything on you just because I’m paying.”  
  
Stiles scrunches up his face, a dark brown eyebrow raised. Jesus, this guy is _just_ like every john I’ve had, he thinks sarcastically. What, did he fall from heaven?  
“You’ve never done this before, have you? You weren’t kidding?”  
Peter’s head swings low. “No. I honestly don’t know what I’m doing here. Now that we’re here I’m second-guessing this whole thing.”  
  
Stiles folds the cash, slipping it inside the hidden pocket he had made in his jacket. He drapes it over the beaten up chair in the corner and takes a place next to Peter. Their knees brush.  
“Peter, just relax, okay? I’m here to make you feel good. Forget whatever it is made you get in the car and seek me out. At least for a little while. Okay?”  
His head bobs. “Okay. Thanks Steve.”  
The name feels off.  
  
Stiles stands up, unzipping his hoodie. Peter watches, transfixed, as clothes slowly fall to the floor. Stiles is even more beautiful than Peter imagined. Slim but naturally athletic. Faint body hair except for a thicker growth in the valley of his chest… and the dark patch of his pubes.  
Stiles notices where the man’s eyes are trained, and he steps right in front of him. He’s half hard.  
“Touch it, Peter. It won’t bite.”  
A quivering hand reaches out, clasping around Stiles’ thick shaft. A little moan escapes Stiles’ throat and Peter licks his lips.  
  
“It’s…a…. it’s beautiful, Steve.”  
“Do you want to taste it?” Stiles whispers. “You can if you want to.”  
Peter reaches around with his free hand. He dips his head and kitten licks the moist tip.  
The taste of Stiles’ pre-cum makes the heat mount in his skin. He’s not sure how much of it is arousal and how much is guilt.  
  
“Oh God,” Stiles throws his head back. He rarely allows johns to blow him. His groin is feeling drawn and tight as Peter takes him deeper.  
“Mmm,” the older man hums from below.  
Ten fingers splay on Stiles’ ass cheeks, Peter’s flesh prickling with desire.  
  
“Oh fuck, Peter… fuck… please…” he can barely articulate. “Please, Peter… **stop**.”  
Peter removes himself, dragging his tongue along the pulsating vein. He makes a pop sound when he gets to the head and pulls off.  
  
Mouth slick, saliva dripping onto his chin, Peter bats his long lashes. “You didn’t like it?”  
Stiles scoffs, one hand cupping his cheek. “Are you kidding? Too much. I just want us to have a little more fun is all.”  
Reaching for the top of his sweatshirt, Stiles undoes the zipper. With a little help he tosses it onto the chair. Peter’s impressive muscles showcase beautifully against blue cotton.  
_Is this guy married or something? He could have any gay guy he wanted._    
  
The next thing to fly through the air is the shirt, leaving Peter half naked. Stiles might be trying to catch flies.  
“Jesus, maybe I should pay you!”  
Peter blushes, interested in his feet. “Thank you, Steve. It’s very sweet of you.”  
Stiles puts his hand out and catches his bearded chin.  
“Hey, you’re hot Peter. I kinda wanna ask why the hell you’re here. But right now it’s not important. Let’s get you more comfortable.”  
  
The curiosity to see what’s bulging in those jeans is overwhelming. Peter stands and lets Stiles unzip with deliberate slowness. A very impressive erection strains against his boxers.  
Stiles drags his tongue along his lower lip. “Nevermind. I’ll give _you_ 300 dollars.”  
  
They both chortle, most of the tension broken.  
“May I?” Stiles indicates with a lift of his eyebrow.  
Without speaking, Peter nods. The rest of the garments end up on the floor.  
  
-  
  
With a slight nudge, Peter lies back in boneless abandon. His mouth finds just the spot that makes Peter whimper. Stiles moves over his crotch, head dipping until he’s completely swallowed him.  
He bounces to the time of Peter’s moaning.  
“Ugh, fuck… like that… oh Jesus… “  
  
When he feels Peter stiffen a few minutes later, Stiles eases up. He doesn’t want to get him off this way unless this is _all_ Peter wants. He did pay him twice his fee, and the guy is smoking hot.  
  
Eyes lit with a golden glow bore into Peter. Stiles smears the back of his hand across his mouth and Peter thinks it’s just about the sexiest thing he’s ever seen.  
Cheek pressed near Peter’s cock head, Stiles pants.  
“Peter, I want to ask if you’d like to fuck. I think we’re dangerously close to the crossroads here so… Personally, I’d love to fuck you.”  
  
Chest heaving, the back of his hand on his forehead, Peter drops his eyes.  
“I’d… I’d hate to feel I’m taking advantage or something.”  
Stiles kisses his inner thigh. “You’re so sweet. You’re not, Peter. I want to. Plus you’re paying so…”  
  
With a swift tug, he beckons Stiles to him.  
Stiles obliges, crawling up to Peter’s level. When he gets there, he perches his head on his palm.  
“What’s wrong?” Stiles asks.  
“I don’t want to think about that. I hate the idea of forcing you with money because otherwise you wouldn’t be here.”  
“Who says I wouldn’t?” Stiles catches himself saying it before he knows what he’s done.  
  
Peter’s forehead wrinkles. “What?”  
“What I mean is… you’re not like any john I’ve ever had. You’re gorgeous, articulate, and polite. Not to mention clean and wonderfully scented. I think it’s endearing you’re so shy about all this. Most johns are assholes. So don’t think you’re paying, okay? Because if by some miracle I could afford to go to a place where we might actually meet, I’d totally be into you. I’d come home with you. Okay? Just imagine we met at a bar near Lincoln Center and here we are. Well maybe not _here_ because this place is a dumpster fire, but- ”  
  
Peter comes up onto his elbows with a gasp. “Oh my god. I know where I’ve seen you.”  
Panic chokes Stiles. “What? We’ve never met before today.” _I think I’m going to faint.  
_  
Head wagging, Peter sits up fully. “Yes! It all makes sense. The knowing the piano pieces… Lincoln Center. I’ve seen you at Juilliard! You study piano performance.”  
All the color drains from Stiles’ otherwise peachy complexion. That is where they’ve seen each other. He recognized Peter when he first saw him!  
  
There’s no sense in lying about it.  
  
“Yeah. I study piano there,” Stiles admits solemnly.  
There’s a moment of silence. Stiles makes to rise. “I’ll give you your money back. It’s okay I understand if you…”  
  
A warm touch on his arm stays Stiles. His muscles tense suddenly under the touch.  
“Stiles. That’s your real name. You’re the senior studying with Rosenblum.  
“Fuck,” Stiles grunts.  
  
Now it’s Peter consoling Stiles. “No no! It’s okay… I don’t care. You think you’re the first college student to do this to pay for school? You spend 8-10 hours a day on the piano, you can’t get a normal job. I get it. No judgment. Especially from a tenured trumpet teacher who goes trolling for young men in the middle of the night because he can’t handle the crippling loneliness he feels.”  
  
Those were the odd callouses. This is Maestro Peter Hale, classical and jazz trumpet.   
Stiles’ face falls the slightest bit. “Peter, please don’t tell anyone at school. I’m so close to graduating.”  
  
He’s no snitch. “I wouldn’t dare, because let’s be honest, it wouldn’t put either of us in a good light.” Concern creases his forehead.  
“Tell me what happened to lead you to do this, though, Stiles. I mean, if you were in difficulty you could have told Rosenblum or the dean. You’re one of our prodigies. I’m sure they’d go above and beyond to help.”  
  
Peter speaks in a relaxed way, his words drawn out and low. It’s calming.  
Stiles massages his right wrist with the fingers of his left hand.  
“My financial aid covers tuition. Not the rest. It’s just me and my Dad, and when he got laid off that was it. I risked having to drop out. Two years from success at Juilliard. What would that have meant?! A life thrown away? All the sacrifices my father had made?! A cellist friend told me he was doing stuff online. I did it with him, but I still wasn’t making enough money. And I have to play 8 hours a day… what kind of job can I get? The only time I don’t play is at night. Johns are lonelier at night. No offense.” A compassionate look isn’t lost on Peter.  
“None taken.”  
  
“So I heard Chelsea Piers was the place to hustle for gay guys. Found an unoccupied corner and claimed it. Eventually I got the reputation for being clean and respectful. Then my friend Ben came along and became my buddy. I have my regulars. It’s a good living for now… and... I like sex.”  
“Who doesn’t?” Peter quips.  
“You know how our world is. I don’t have time to date. Most johns, even if they’re assholes, don’t gross me out enough for me to not get off. What the hell. I get paid to fuck _and_ I like it.”  
  
Peter’s conscious of his hand gently squeezing Stiles’ knee.  
“I understand, Stiles. I do. I’m sorry it’s come to this. If there's anything I can do... ”  
Stiles shrugs. “It won’t be forever. Just until I graduate. Then maybe I can get some semblance of a normal life back. As normal as a pianist’s can be. And I still have music. That one beautiful thing in this universe, no one will ever take from me."  
A tear may or may not be traveling down the ridge of Peter's nose.   
  
"Anyway," Stiles coughs. "I have a friend who has it worse, trust me. I’m lucky.”  
  
Luck wouldn’t be defined this way by any means, Peter thinks.  “So six more months?”  
A forced smile and a tense motion of the head lead Peter to believe Stiles may not be as resigned to this situation as he makes out to be. But he’s an adult.  
What’s Peter’s place to tell him anything? Especially naked in bed paying him for sex. Jesus he fucked this up.   
  
“Yeah. Six more months.” Stiles bends over the edge of the bed, fumbling with his pants. When he comes back up, he’s got a silver wrapper between his fingers.  
“Listen… Peter. Enough chatting. We came here to do something and I still want to do it if this isn’t too weird for you now.”  
  
For a moment Peter thinks he’s not going to answer.  
Just get up and get dressed, he tells himself. Take this boy back to Juilliard and figure out a way…  
  
But the light in Stiles' eyes... this look he's giving him… Jesus Christ. He feels his resistance weakening as Stiles moves his delicate hand from his shoulder to the soft spot below his ear.  
“I really like you Peter,” he breathes. “I've been so lonely. So have you. Jesus I like you so much. SO MUCH I think I’d like to kiss you. I never kiss my clients. But you're not some john, are you?”  
  
Stiles already has every intention of returning his fee. Peter prays for the will to say no, but he can't.   
All he's been craving is someone's _understanding. A kind touch._  
  
Peter is speechless. He allows himself to be guided down to the pillow, still covered by probably the only clean thing in the room, the towel.  
“Just relax,” Stiles whispers.  
Stiles’ lips kiss Peter’s eyelids softly, moving down the angle of his jaw until they settle on his shiny mouth.  
Peter feels his heart aching as his tongue moves gently against Stiles’.  
  
It’s a light kiss, exquisitely tender. Slowly Peter’s hands move downward, skimming either side of Stiles’ gorgeous body, to his smooth thighs.  
One shy hand slides further inward until, with gentle authority, Stiles makes it grab his turgid cock.  
“Oh my God,” Peter simpers.  
  
Stiles climbs over, one thigh possessively laying over the other.  
  
Demanding lips caress. Curious hands knead and scratch.

With a more probing, sensuous movement, Stiles’ tongue commands full surrender. The kiss leaves a throbbing, passionate message.  
“You do have a trumpeter’s lips,” Stiles winks.  
  
“Oh God Stiles,” Peter begs, drawing in air as if he’s drowning. And in a way, he is.  “I want you.”  
  
Swollen sexes twitch, and Stiles spreads his legs, grazing the sharp angles of Peter’s hips as he climbs fully on top.     
  
Two forlorn men meet casually in the night, only to discover they have more in common than they believed.  
  
Stiles lifts his luscious lips until they hover just above Peter’s.  
“I’m all yours Peter,” Stiles whispers. “ _All yours_. Take me.”  
  
His dark-eyed gaze tugs at Peter's heart.  
Unwittingly they may have just found each other's anchor. 


	2. Epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Flash forward to 15 years later. A small glimpse.

_15 Years Later_  
  
Stiles settles into the back of the limo. As soon as he’s comfortable, he pulls on the bow of his tux and loosens it.   
“That was a beautiful speech, baby.”   
Stiles smiles faintly, his shoulders dropping with a sigh. “I do this every year and yet it never gets easier.”  
  
Peter undoes the buttons of his coat, spreading his knees wider apart. He lets his fingers intertwine with Stiles’.   
There’s a comfortable silence falling, and Stiles takes it to study the man before him. The dim light makes him look all the more distinguished.  
There’s more gray in Peter’s hair now, and the laugh lines are etched deeper. But the sparkle of blue in his eyes is just as vibrant. If not more.   
Jesus… he's breathtaking, Stiles thinks. Peter Hale is still one of the best-looking men he’s ever seen.  
He lucked out.   
  
“I know, Stiles. I know. But he’d be so proud of you today,” Peter breathes.   
  
Stiles glances down to the leaflet resting near him. A glossy of Ben Placido’s smiling face looks back.  
“Yeah, maybe. I wish we didn’t need this though. I wish things could have changed. But nothing really has. Sometimes all of it just has an air of total futility.”   
  
Peter leans forward, the lines on his forehead crossing. He presses into the soft skin between Stiles’ thumb and index.  
“Nothing about this is futile, okay Stiles? You’ve done so much. There are 4 more shelters and a whole fund helping kids, and that’s just here in New York. All of it is because of  _you._  No one else.”  
  
Stiles’ reflection mirrors against the dark glass.  
“I suppose you’re right.” He takes a deep breath. “Still, it could have all been different. Like _Sliding Doors_ or something.”  
“How do you mean?”  
The corners of Stiles’ lips curl up into a smile. “I guess I’m glad I was poor and desperate. I wouldn’t have met Ben otherwise. And you would have never picked me up had I not been on that corner.”  
  
Tugging up on his pants, Peter crosses his legs. “We might have met at school.”  
“Doubtful,” Stiles says with a shake of his brown head. “Not with me being stuck in a practice room all day. I barely recognized you the night we met. All I’m trying to say is that I’m not unhappy about it. I think it had to happen for a reason. That part of my life made me who I am today. Gave me another purpose, other than playing music. And it brought us together.”  
Grinning, Peter angles over and kisses Stiles’ cheek. “Now _that_ I’m truly thankful for. I’ve never been more glad I was so sad and alone then.”  
A chuckle shakes Stiles. “We got a happy ending, didn’t we Peter? Too bad Ben didn’t. That could have just as easily been me. I’ll never forgive myself for not being able to save him.”  
  
Peter squeezes Stiles’ wrist. “You tried, Stiles. You tried. Some people don’t want help. At that point poor Ben was beyond redemption.”  
His lungs deflate and Stiles nods. “I know.  Hey, after rehearsal do you mind coming to the cemetery with me?”  
“Of course not.”  
“Thanks. I just need to see him again. I haven’t been since his birthday.”  
  
His eyes hang on Stiles. “You’re a good person, hon. Truly.”  
Emotions flit across Stiles’ face. “I don’t think I am, Peter. I think I’ve just been chasing my conscience’s shadow all this time. But it can’t hurt to try.”  
A siren outside breaks their reverie.  
Peter wants to change the subject. Stiles is getting too brooding for his own good.  
  
“Oh! Almost forgot. Wiener Philharmoniker called. They want you in 4 months for a 3-day cycle.”  
“What?” he asks with a tilt of the head, like he didn’t hear right. “Really?”  
“Uh-huh. And guess what they want you to play? If you feel up to it.”  
The subtle rise of Peter’s eyebrow puts a giggle in Stiles’ belly.  
“Lemme guess. The Rach. The one playing in the car the night we met.”  
Peter nods back without speaking.  
“I think that might be a good omen, baby. I’ll do it. And I’m going to dedicate it to Ben.”  
Pressing a kiss into his palm, Peter smiles. “I’m sure he would have loved to hear you play.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I felt like it needed an ending of sorts. A bit romantic and perhaps unrealistic, with an element probably all too truly tragic. But such is life.  
> Thank you for reading this. It means a lot.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading untill the end. I wanted to write more but felt too choked up so this is what it is. I didn't mean this to be a "Pretty Woman" story. I have no idea what would happen between Peter and Stiles after this encounter, except they do come from a similar world and do understand each other's need for connection and affection.  
> I like to think Stiles helps Ben somehow once he gets out of this vortex, because that's who Stiles is in this story. An altruist. 
> 
> Ben, though a fictional character, is unfortunately one of thousands of LGBTQIA youth who end up on the streets in today's society.  
> Starting from Trinity Shelter https://trinityplaceshelter.org/ to New Alternatives https://www.newalternativesnyc.org/ these are among two services helping teens in NYC who are in need of assistance.  
> Not forgetting the important True Colors Fund. https://truecolorsfund.org/about/  
> If you can donate to these or your local youth shelters please do so.  
> The stats for these cases aren't great and most local governments don't care about what happens to at-risk youth.  
> Of course until things don't start changing on a grander scale, none of this will truly improve on any level, but as citizens we can still try to do our small part.  
> Thanks for coming to my Ted Talk


End file.
